


Slow Tide

by moonlighten



Series: Stand-alone AUs and One-shots [3]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: England/France (Hetalia) - Freeform, M/M, Pining, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-10
Updated: 2017-05-30
Packaged: 2018-05-19 14:21:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5970150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonlighten/pseuds/moonlighten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1295-2010: Scotland has been in love with France for over a thousand years. He's never told anyone, least of all France.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> AUing my AU, because Scotland didn't suffer and pine over France quite enough in FtF, clearly...
> 
> The Brit bros are my FtF versions with a few minor variations, chief amongst them are the decision Scotland makes differently at the start of the fic, and the fact that Scotland didn't lie to England about the fae when they were children.
> 
> I wasn't sure how to tag this, as England/France will play a big part in it, but it definitely won't be the endgame pairing. Rating may also be subject to change, if I end up getting cold feet over certain future events as I fear I might...

* * *

 

**1295; Edinburgh, Kingdom of Scotland**

  
  
They are tied now with ink and parchment and the oaths of their kings, but those are weak things, _human_ things, and they do not command their hearts.  
  
Scotland's heart is in his mouth, lying heavy on his tongue.  
  
He wants to tell France that he is willing to give more of himself to this new alliance of theirs than his king had ever promised. That his breath, his life, his very soul is France's for the taking if France should ever have the need or even the desire for it.  
  
But fear steals his speech just as surely as France's presence at his side steals his thoughts.  
  
He stays silent, offering France no more than the passive warmth of his body when he leans in close, teeth chattering. In silence, they sit together, share wine, and watch the darkness shifting above their heads as clouds scud across the sky, blotting out first the stars and then the moon.  
  
France surges to his feet when the first drops of rain start to fall, and holds out his hand to help Scotland to his own. His palm is cold, clammy with dampness borrowed from the sodden air, and Scotland wants to chafe it between his own; hold it against his chest buried deep amongst the folds of his brat where the thick wool and the heat of his own pounding blood will be sure to warm it.  
  
France snatches it away too soon for Scotland to form anything more than those brief impressions and entertain those even briefer wishes, then turns and races the short distance back to the castle so quickly that Scotland cannot hope to keep pace with him.  
  
They meet again at the top of the stairs, and exchange the only words that have passed between them for an hour or more. A simple 'Good night' before Scotland's steps take him right to his own chambers, France's to the left, and they part for the what remains of the night.

 

 

* * *

  
  
  
  
**1325; Kingdom of France**

  
  
  
Scotland has often cursed himself as both a coward and a fool for his inability to speak plain to France thirty years ago.  
  
But for every moment of self-recrimination, there are ten more like this one, wherein he is thankful he held his tongue.  
  
He stands at the Earl of Moray's shoulder, listening with half an ear to the honeyed words he pours on France's king and keeping half an eye on France himself, who sits at his king's right hand.  
  
Just as he knew it would, regret had visited him when first he saw on the other kingdom. To Scotland's mind, each passing year brings fresh beauty to France's countenance - revealing a delicate strength of feature as the last remnants of youthful plumpness fade away - but yet more so to his figure.  
  
His clothes are doubtless made from the finest silk, and trimmed with the most expensive of furs, but Scotland has never had an eye for such things. He is much more admiring of their cut.  
  
France's cotehardie is nipped tight at his slim waist and hemmed shorter than any Scotland has seen before. It accentuates the length of his leg, just as the close cling of his hose accentuates the smooth and powerful lines of his calves.  
  
Scotland's eyes burn just to look at him, his fingers ache with the longing to touch, but relief comes with the coldness of France's own eye.  
  
He had met Scotland with the dry courtesy of a stranger, with naught but a single glance rapidly turned elsewhere, and he seems bored already by the talk of renewing their alliance. His gaze is distant and expression drawn blank; present in body only.  
  
He does not spare a look to Scotland in return. Not one, and Scotland is gladdened by it, because it proves again that he was right not to let his heart spill. It seems more evident than ever before that it would have fallen on barren ground, that the slight attentions France had once paid him were nothing more than they had appeared on the surface. They had been exactly what England had warned him they would be: flatteries and idle flirtations fleetingly given and swiftly forgotten.  
  
He is glad he spared himself the pain of hearing those truths from France's lips, and it makes the shame of his cowardice far easier to bear.

 

 

* * *

  
  
  
**22nd March, 1421; Baugé, Kingdom of France**

  
  
  
France's cheeks are flushed crimson, his hair turned dank and dark as ditchwater with the sweat dripping from his brow, but his eyes are burning bright in exultation, his smile brighter still.  
  
Triumphant, he is more beautiful than ever, so much so that Scotland can't bear to look at him.  
  
He tries to turn aside, but France lays a hand against his cheek, holding him still. The sharp edges of his gauntlet dig deep into Scotland's skin.  
  
"You... You and your men were magnificent," France says, pulling Scotland a little closer, pushing his head back until their eyes meet. "We might have turned the tide this war at last."  
  
This close, France stinks of other men's blood and his own exertions, his breath turned sour with hunger, but Scotland has never felt the urge to kiss him more strongly. He bites down hard on his bottom lip, and again finds himself robbed of speech, as France tilts his head, purses his lips, hinting that his thoughts might have taken a similar turn.  
  
If they had, that turn was a shallow one, corrected in short order. When next he speaks, it is only to give an admonishment.  
  
"Though you should not have allowed what remained of _Angleterre_ 's army to retreat," he says. "That may cost us dearly."  
  
France's face darkens at the prospect, and he wheels away from Scotland with a snarl. All his words thereafter are venomous, filled with anger directed towards England and their tainted victory, with not one more to spare for gratitude or any pride he might have taken in Scotland's prowess on the field.  
  
Seemingly, they are soon forgotten.

 

 

* * *

 

  
  
  
**9th September, 1513; Northumberland, Kingdom of England**

  
  
  
It's England who lands the blow that fells him and finishes the fighting between them, even though the battle rages on.  
  
He kneels down in the mud by Scotland's head and smooths the hair back from his brow in a cruel parody of a caress, his fingernails digging deep into the wounds that have split Scotland's scalp.  
  
"He probably won't even think to thank you for this, you know," England says, his voice made thick and over-sweet by pretended concern.  
  
Scotland's chest has been crushed, as bent and buckled as the breastplate which was supposed to protect it. His throat is filled with blood and thin, acidic spittle, no room left for breath, and he can only bare his teeth in answer to England. He isn't sure himself whether it is a smile or a grimace.  
  
England sighs, skimming his fingers down along the curve of Scotland's jaw to rest lightly against the point of his chin. "Was it worth it?" he asks. "Has it ever been worth what he asks of you?"  
  
Scotland's king is dying, he felt it as keen as an arrowhead between his ribs, and England's men will likely take the field, but there's a small hidden part of Scotland that is proud that he can still hold himself to the promise he had made solely to himself. The one France will doubtless never hear.  
  
"Scotland?" England snaps. "Are you even listening to me?"  
  
Scotland closes his eyes and his ears to his brother, leaving England to wax his wroth uselessly to the empty air.

 

 

* * *

 

  
  
**8th July, 1560; Edinburgh, Kingdom of Scotland**  
  
  
  
Their alliance ends in the same way it had started, with the flourish of a quill.  
  
The terms of the treaty both Scotland has put his name to, brokering peace with his brother, demands the withdrawal of French troops from his country, and their kingdom himself will go with them.  
  
Scotland stands at the door to the chambers which have been France's these past few months, watching as France slowly and methodically packs up his belongings. He is careful to fix every last detail of his face and body in his memory, every last graceful movement of his hands and flicker of his otherwise placid expression, as he does not when he will next have the honour of seeing them in the flesh once more.  
  
France's visits to his home have always been sporadic and brief, performed out of duty rather than pleasure, Scotland has often thought.  
  
And without duty, there is no reason remaining for them to continue.  
  
As Scotland has kept a close guard on his tongue over the centuries in an effort to ensure that all that he wishes to remain unsaid has not the chance to slip free of his control, they have never been able to talk freely.  
  
They have never been what Scotland would call friends, and latterly had become little better than acquaintances, held together but loosely by the will of their monarchs, the church, and a shared desire to thwart the ambition of England and his kings.  
  
As those ties slacken, dissolve, and allegiances shift, Scotland cannot imagine there will anything left to bind them one to another again.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- 1295: The treaty signed in 1295 by John Balliol (King of Scots) and Philip IV of France against Edward I of England is normally taken to mark the start of the Auld Alliance.
> 
> \- 1325: The Earl of Moray was sent to France to persuade King Louis X to renew the alliance.
> 
> \- 1421: The Battle of Baugé was a major defeat for the English at the hands of a Franco-Scots army during the Hundred Years' War.
> 
> \- 1513: Battle of Flodden, fought between the kingdoms of England and Scotland in Northumberland. War was declared on England by James IV of Scotland to honour the terms of the Auld Alliance and divert English troops from their campaign against Louis XII of France.
> 
> \- 1560: Treaty of Edinburgh proclaimed in the names of Elizabeth, Queen of England, and François and Mary, King and Queen of France and Scotland. (Later known as the Treaty of Edinburgh.) This peace was brokered to break the Siege of Leith, and its terms demanded that all bar 120 French troops leave Scotland. It is generally considered to mark the end of the Auld Alliance.
> 
> The Siege of Leith was a a twelve year encampment of French troops at Leith, a port near Edinburgh. It began during the Rough Wooing when Scotland invited French troops to help repel English incursion, and a group of anti-French Protestant lords (the Lords of the Congregation) eventually appealed to Queen Elizabeth I for English aid to end it.


	2. Chapter 2

**1587; Edinburgh, Scotland**

 

  
France's next visit to his country is both unanticipated and unannounced, and Scotland is first alerted to it in the old way by the stentorious alarm calls of his fae and the dizzying eddies of magic France stirs with his passing, washing across the land.  
  
The progress of his small retinue is both stately and slow which should grant Scotland ample time to prepare for their meeting, but it does not.  
  
His days are filled with doubts, his nights so disturbed by questions that he cannot snatch more than a few scattered hours of sleep from them, and thus his temper is far from phlegmatic when he does greet France's eventual arrival.  
  
France's dress is sombre, his demeanour uncharacteristically subdued, and if he notices the tired stumble of Scotland's voice when he welcomes him, then Scotland sees no sign of it, as his expression remains unvaryingly grave throughout.  
  
Afterwards, France begs pardon for his intrusion then asks if he might be permitted to speak to Scotland in private.  
  
So Scotland leads him up to his own chambers, where they sit beside the hearth and drink wine for a half hour or more without a single word being exchanged between them.  
  
"I wanted to offer you my condolences," France says suddenly, without preamble and without looking up from his cup.  
  
Scotland frowns at him, puzzled. "You already did," he says. "And I thank you for them."  
  
A very pretty letter it had been, too; elegantly phrased platitudes written in a fine and steady hand. A full page taken to say nothing of substance, but Scotland had read it four times through, regardless, before carefully storing it away. Over all the many years of their acquaintance, France had written to him personally on only a handful of occasions, so the letter was a precious thing for all that it was as dry and unfeeling as any correspondence France had penned instead for the eyes of Scotland's king.  
  
" _Écosse_..." France frowns as well, and then rubs at brow as if it pains him. "I wanted to offer them in person."  
  
An even prettier sentiment, but Scotland can think of no better response to it besides another, "Thank you."  
  
France makes no further comment for a while, and his silence gives Scotland time to reflect and then decide that this visit had not been paid for his benefit, but out of respect for his departed queen. She had been a great favourite at the French court, and had loved France dearly, which Scotland can hardly fault her for. Likely France had loved her, too, in his turn.  
  
"You will miss her," France says, his voice thinning and strained. His free hand tightens in his lap, briefly forming a fist before flattening out again.  
  
"Aye," Scotland says because there's nothing else _to_ say. He has mourned all of his rulers when they passed, and remembers them still – the good and the ill – but no more than is proper or fitting. He has a new king now, to whom he must give all of his heart. Or, at least, be seen to have done.  
  
He thinks France will miss her in a different way, though; as a friend and not as a kingdom. As someone who was fortunate enough to watch her grow from a child into womanhood.  
  
France's eyes are damp, tears hanging trapped and glistening in his lower lashes.  
  
"She wanted to be buried in France,"  Scotland says, hoping that it might be of some small comfort to the other nation.  
  
"And I would have accepted her gladly," France says with a watery smile. "But I suppose she will be buried here?"  
  
"England's queen refuses to release her to us. She'll be laid to rest down there somewhere, I shouldn't wonder."  
  
France's response is both shockingly swift and so unexpected that Scotland has neither the presence of mind nor the opportunity to protest before his hand is caught up and a kiss pressed to his knuckles as has not happened since they were children together, and France was play-acting at chivalry.  
  
" _Écosse_..." France says again, and his breath is even warmer than his lips had been, raising a prickling sweat to Scotland's skin as it gusts over it.  
  
But if he had any comfort of his own to share, it is not forthcoming. He merely repeats the name for a third time, and then loosens his grip on Scotland's hand, letting it drop.  
  
He rises to his feet stiffly, gives a tight bow, and then makes his farewells in a distant tone that has not a solitary speck of its former compassion or ardour remaining to it.  
  
He is gone before Scotland has chance to speak his own fare-thee-well in return.  


 

 

* * *

 

  
  
  
**1696; Edinburgh, Scotland**

  
  
  
When Scotland opens the door to his chambers at his brother's knock, England greets him with the opinion that: "You look like you should be in the ground already."  
  
Scotland bows mockingly deep. "As ever, your concern for my well-being touches me more than I can say, _Sasainn_."  
  
England curls his top lip in a snarl, and he doesn't wait for an invitation to enter before barging past Scotland and into his rooms. He takes a swift turn around them, casting a censorious eye over Scotland's few possessions, and then comes to a halt by the mullioned window.  
  
There situated, he arranges himself with what seems to be deliberate artifice so that the last light of the dying day catches on the rich embroidery decorating his long coat, making it shimmer. It highlights the downy hair on his cheeks too, when he turns his head to look over his shoulder at Scotland, burnishing his face with a golden patina.  
  
"When did you eat last?" he asks.  
  
Scotland honestly cannot recall. He does not need to, and when his will is strong enough, he can persuade himself that he does not want to, either. That has become ever harder of late, as the habit of hunger claws at his belly just as surely his people's hunger gnaws away at his strength. Last year's harvest had been particularly poor, food prices have soared and so many are starving or fleeing his shores in search of better living that he is, he's certain, fast becoming but a shadow of his former self.  
  
He refuses to let England make him feel ashamed of his gaunt cheeks and ashen complexion, however, and he stands up as straight and tall as the ache in his joints will allow, and meets his brother's gaze with a steady eye.  
  
"Why does it matter?"  
  
"I know you find it hard to believe, but I _do_ care what becomes of you. Which is more than can be said of some."  
  
"And what, exactly, do you mean by that?" Scotland asks, even though he thinks the small smile playing about England's lips is probably answer enough on its own.  
  
England's smile grows, sharp and spiteful. "I told you that the frog couldn't be relied upon, didn't I? All those years of you throwing yourself on other people's swords for him, and where is he now, when your need is at its greatest?"  
  
Between the war and France's turn towards protectionism, there is precious little aid finding its way to Scotland's country now from the continent. Scotland has never thought to blame the kingdom himself for any of it, however.  
  
"It's all politicking at the end of the day, isn't it?" Scotland says, shrugging. "And he has his own problems to worry about, besides."  
  
"Of course," England purrs in a conciliatory tone. "Of course he would be bringing help to your poor, beleaguered people with his own hands if they weren't so tied. I've no doubt he tells you as much with a great deal of conviction, at least."  
  
Scotland has not heard a single word from France for many years. He shifts his weight uneasily.  
  
"So what if he has?" he asks, neither wanting to confirm England's speculations or, especially, deny them, as they are far more charitable than the truth, no matter how unkindly they were spoken. "What would you have him do instead, England? He can no more go against the wishes of his king than we could defy ours."  
  
"And I wouldn't expect him to. It simply saddens me, my dear brother, that you cannot call on the succour of that grand alliance of yours in this time of need."  
  
His doleful expression is unconvincing, and Scotland wants to punch it straight off his face. He restrains himself, though, because he fears that he has grown weak enough that he could not fell his brother in one blow as he used to, or long withstand his inevitable retaliation thereafter.  
  
"The alliance no longer stands, as well you know."  
  
"It slipped my mind but for a moment. My apologies." England taps at his temple, as though scolding himself for his forgetfulness. "But you do have other friends still. And some are much closer to hand."  
  
His smile turns beatific, and Scotland snorts roughly. "Are you trying to tell me you're one of them?"

"I could be the best of them," England says, rushing forward to clasp at Scotland's shoulders. His eyes are shining with a zealot's light. "I could give you all the help you need, Scotland."  
  
The union again, no doubt. Scotland shakes his head.  
  
"I don't want your kind of help, England."  
  
"Maybe not now," England says, his grip tightening slightly, "but I wouldn't be surprised if you're singing a different tune before long."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- 1587: Mary, Queen of Scots died this year, executed in England after being implicated in a plot to assassinate Elizabeth I. Mary was sent to France at the age of five, after marriage was arranged between her and the French king's three year old son. She spent thirteen years at the French court, where she was a great favourite.
> 
> \- 1696: One of the Seven Ill Years, a national famine in Scotland. It was caused, in part, by a shift towards protectionism in France, causing a slump in trade, and four years of failed harvests. This famine was one of the factors leading to the eventual union of Scotland with England in 1707.


	3. Chapter 3

**11th May, 1745; near Tournai, Austrian Netherlands**  
  
  
  
With a loud curse inventively blasphemous in its vulgarity, France first throws his musket down and then strikes at it with the heel of his boot, grinding it deeper into the mud.  
  
"Jammed," he says by way of explanation for his behaviour when he turns towards Scotland, his empty hands raised. Despite the gun aimed at his head, he flashes Scotland a lopsided smile made crooked by the deep cut bisecting his top lip. His teeth are roseate, darkened by a thin wash of blood. "I'm entirely at your mercy, _Écosse_. What do you intend to do with me?"  
  
Scotland has gravely wounded France but once, when they were children playing at battle together and testing their skills with the sword. He hadn't wanted to even then, but France had practically begged it of him; taunting him for his diffidence, and goading him to hit faster, harder, to use his full strength instead of deliberately pulling back and softening each blow.  
  
He had cleaved France's torso almost clean in two – opening him up like a butchered deer – and then vomited until he was bringing up nothing but bile.  
  
France likely thought it a fresh display of weakness, and the sight of blood and torn guts sickened him, but it had been France's expression that had turned his stomach. That beloved face contorting into something unrecognisable with the shock of agony, and then the split-second fear that they may not be as immortal as they'd always believed. That he might actually have _killed_ France.  
  
He vowed that day that he would never again spill France's blood unless it was in defence of another's life.  
  
His own does not count for it, so he lowers his musket.  
  
"Nothing," he says.  
  
"Nothing," France repeats dully.  
  
England would demand that he shoot. Doubtless their officers would too, but like as not, in the chaos of battle, France's soldiers wouldn't know that their kingdom had been defeated until after the fighting was done.  
  
Even if Scotland were to present France's severed head to the Duke of Cumberland himself, it would not change the outcome of this war, as their kind might echo their people's struggles, but they no longer direct them. It would be a symbolic victory of sorts, perhaps, but it would not decide the victor.  
  
He turns, takes two strides away from France, and then something strikes him hard at the base of his skull. He hears his bone shatter, sharp as a whip crack, and the pain is so unexpected and intense that it drives him to his knees.  
  
France grabs him roughly by the shoulders, pulls him down onto his back, and then crouches over him, trapping Scotland's hips tight between his thighs.  
  
"Look at me, _Écosse_."  
  
His voice is harsh enough that the request sounds like a command, and Scotland obeys it without thought, meeting France's eyes more directly than he has dared to for centuries.  
  
France's pupils have shrunk down to tiny pinpricks, revealing a ring of darker blue at the centre of his irises, and his gaze is so forthright, so penetrating that Scotland becomes uncomfortably aware of the meagre heat of his body and the weight of him pressing down.  
  
He appears to be searching for something, but whatever it might be, it clearly eludes him, for a moment later he sneers derisively and rocks back on his haunches, rearing away from Scotland as if repulsed.  
  
"Sometimes I think there isn't anything happening behind those dumb cow eyes of yours," he says, the words laced through with distaste. "Why didn't you attack me?"  
  
Once, France might have been pleased by the truth, gratified, but those days are long gone, and it has become yet one more shameful secret that is Scotland's alone to bear.  
  
"What would be the point of it?" he asks.  
  
"The point, you ridiculous man, is that we are enemies now. You should _hate_ me. Here..."  
  
France fumbles a small knife from the sheath hung at his belt and then presses it against Scotland's throat, the needle-sharp tip of it piercing the thin skin just below his jaw.  
  
Scotland reaches out to shove him back, but stops just short of touching him as he finds himself transfixed by the trembling of France's hands, the beads of sweat gathering at his brow.  
  
France sweats and shakes and swallows down air in sharp, gulping breaths, and the knife sinks no deeper. Eventually, he hurls it to the ground with an even more virulent curse than the musket had been accorded and then surges to his feet.  
  
"You're not worth it, _Écosse_ ," he spits. "You've never..."  
  
The sentence remains unfinished, and France's parting gift before he leaves to rejoin his soldiers is instead a hefty kick to Scotland's ribs.

 

 

* * *

  
  
  
**4th July, 1784; Buckinghamshire, England**

  
  
  
"He hasn't spoken a word or moved from that chair all afternoon," Wales says, peering anxiously through the crack of the door to England's study.  
  
"Aye, and very peaceful it's been, too," Scotland says. "Long may it continue."  
  
"Scotland," Wales says, his tone faintly chiding. "I'm concerned about him. Aren't you?"  
  
"Not particularly. He's just sulking, Wales; it won't kill him."  
  
"It won't do him much good, either. He hasn't eaten for three days, or stirred out of doors for over a week. That can't possibly be healthy."  
  
Scotland is of the opinion that it would take more than a few missed meals to bring England low, and more's the pity, but Wales' bottom lip has been worried raw and his fingernails are all bitten down to the quick, betraying far greater anxiety than the mildness of his words suggests.  
  
And an anxious Wales is tiring company. Scotland will likely not be allowed a moment's rest from hearing about his concerns unless he feigns sharing them to some degree.  
  
He sighs in resignation. "What do you want me to do about it, then? Pick him up by the scruff of his neck and force him to take a turn around the gardens?"  
  
"I'm sure there's no need to manhandle him." Wales purses his lips primly. "Just talk to him. I've tried, but he won't listen to me."  
  
"And you think he'll listen to _me_?"   
  
"He always listens to you, Scotland. He simply doesn't like what you say most of the time."  
  
"Fine." Defeated, Scotland throws up his hands. "I'll go. I wouldn't get your hopes up, though."

  
____  


  
England has drawn the curtains against the bright summer's sun outside, and his study is lit only by the fire, built up much too high for the heat of the day.  
  
Scotland immediately loosens his collar, but still finds it somewhat of a struggle to breathe. The air is dry, ripe with the stink of old sweat and so thickened by coal- and pipe-smoke that he cannot see clear from one side of the room to the other.  
  
"It smells like the devil's armpit in here," he tells the hazily defined lump that he presumes is England. "I'm going to open the window."  
  
"Don't," the lump protests weakly.  
  
Scotland pays it no heed. He throws open both curtains and window, letting in both the light and a gentle breeze which stirs the fog sufficiently that England begins to emerge from its depths.  
  
He is slumped at his desk, clutching a bottle in one hand, a glass half-filled with a colourless spirit in the other, and clad only in his shirtsleeves, his waistcoat unbuttoned and head bare.  
  
"What the fuck do you want?" he asks without lifting his head from its wearied droop.  
  
"Wales was fretting about you," Scotland says. "Worried that you might do yourself an injury."  
  
"As you can see, I'm fine," England says. "You're more than welcome to piss off now."  
  
"You don't look fine, England." As Scotland approaches the desk, that becomes ever more apparent. His brother's face is drawn, scored with stark lines bracketing his mouth and feathering the corners of his eyes. "You look like you're trying your best to suffocate yourself in here, or" – he plucks the glass from England's unresisting hand and takes a sip from it; it scorches his throat like a draught of liquid fire – "poison yourself with rotgut."  
  
England shrugs one shoulder and then drinks deep from his bottle. His eyes water afterwards and he coughs like a consumptive.  
  
"You could have found something more palatable to drown your sorrows with," Scotland says, but England ignores the observation.  
  
"I don't know how you can be so bloody cheerful," he grumbles. "Wales, too. On today of all days."  
  
"Because it doesn't change anything if we are. What's done is done. Being miserable isn't going to bring him back to us, is it?"  
  
England grimaces in disgust. "You're so... so unfeeling. Your heart really is made of fucking stone, isn't it?"  
  
Scotland is fond of America, but they've never been especially close. England had made sure to maintain a degree of distance between them, jealously possessive of the lad's time and attention. He will never feel the loss of their guardianship of America as acutely as his brother does, or mourn it so keenly.  
  
"He's not dead, England." Scotland perches on the edge of his brother's desk and, very tentatively, rests his hand against the top of his head. England's hair is heavy with grease and clings unpleasantly to the tips of his fingers. He swiftly withdraws the touch. "He's not your enemy."  
  
"You weren't there at the end," England says. "You didn't see how he looked at me. Like he..." He swallows hard. "It was all France's fault, you know. Dripping his poison in the lad's ear. Turning him against me."  
  
Scotland groans, burying his face in his hands. As England has been persistent in this particular belief beyond all bounds of rationality and good sense, it seems unlikely that anything Scotland could say will persuade him to think otherwise, but it irritates him enough that he can't help but make an attempt to do so.  
  
"He was following the will of his people," he says. "It wasn't personal, any more than it was when you tried to stop him. He didn't do it to _hurt_ you, for God's sake."  
  
England scoffs at that, and then takes another swig from his bottle. "I imagine the frog will set his sights on Canada next." He glares at Scotland accusingly. "Though I'm sure you know that already."  
  
"What the hell have I got to do with any of this?"  
  
"Oh, come now, you don't expect me to believe that the two of you don't discuss such things. I can't imagine that there's any topic of conversation you enjoy better than planning how to... how to make trouble for me."  
  
It's clear now that England's mind has become so addled by drink and exhaustion that his thoughts have started to race along very twisted paths indeed. He would never normally entertain such fears, or, at least, would never admit to them. They shouldn't be encouraged; even acknowledging them is likely unwise.  
  
"And when, exactly, do you imagine that we have chance discuss anything of the sort, even if I wanted to," Scotland says, because the wound to his pride is far more pressing. He cannot let an accusation of _treason_ , no matter how irrational, stand uncontested. "I haven't met with him without you at my side since I joined the fucking union. Oh, excepting that time he threatened to slit my throat, but he wasn't really in the mood for cosy tête-à-têtes then."  
  
"He writes to you, I suppose," England says, obviously unwilling to concede the point.  
  
"You sort the post yourself every day, England; have you ever seen a letter addressed to me in his hand?" Scotland waits until he receives a grudging shake of the head from England, and then adds, "We don't talk, we don't write, we... We're not anything to each other anymore."

England abandons his bottle and leans back in his seat, regarding Scotland speculatively with half-lidded eyes. "So he.. You're no longer lovers, then?"

The question catches Scotland so off-guard that he answers it honestly, purely on reflex. "We've _never_ been lovers _,_ England."

"Oh, I..." England pales, his expression riven in shock. "I'm sorry, Scotland. I shouldn't have—"

"You've nothing to be sorry for," Scotland says quickly, not wanting to suffer his brother's pity, either now or ever again. "Neither of us has ever wanted that."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- 1745: Battle of Fontenoy, a major engagement of the War of the Austrian Succession.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recycling again, I'm afraid. I've used one of the abandoned snippets I posted in Miscellany to form part of this chapter...

* * *

 

 **23rd February, 1797; Fishguard, Wales**  
  
  
  
The first step of the first soldier falls on Scotland just as surely as the sands of Carregwastad Bay. It strikes him with the force of a cannonball taken direct to the gut, and he wakes to the sound of his own screams.  
  
Above his head, the air coruscates with his fae. Too agitated by terror to take on their usual simulacrums of the human form, they are nothing but darting, flickering points of light, so bright that Scotland can still see them even when he closes his eyes.  
  
Their screaming is wordless, but it nonetheless speaks of violence and vengeance and the spilling of blood.  
  
He's already dressing when England bursts into his room to breathlessly, needlessly, inform him that, "We're being invaded."  
  
Scotland, England and Wales take a stagecoach out of Oxford, but it's too slow to keep pace with their anger, so at the next posting house they abandon comfort and continue on horseback, riding on through the night, and swapping out their horses only when they are too exhausted to keep galloping.  
  
They make better time than Scotland could ever have thought possible and arrive at Fishguard that evening, not even a full day after they set out. It's still too late for them to be of any use to their people.  
  
The irregulars who had made up the bulk of the French invasionary force had decided they preferred wine to fighting, and now lay scattered across Pembrokeshire in sodden, unhappy heaps that only needed to be scooped up before they sobered up. The few hundred soldiers that remained had retreated to Garnwnda and Carngelli and were well protected by the rocky terrain, but, it appeared, their spirit had been broken by the loss of both troops and their naval support, which had departed that morning.  
  
The appearance of Scotland and his brothers at the Royal Oak pub – Lord Cawdor's temporary headquarters – had been preceded only an hour before by two French officers, negotiating surrender.  
  
"They have until ten tomorrow to accept our terms. I have informed Colonel Tate he should meet us on Goodwick Sands," Lord Cawdor says, finishing his debrief.  
  
"The American?" England sneers. "And you said some of their officers were Irish?"  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
"Did you perhaps see a woman with them?" England leans farther across the pitted oak table, his hands clasped together and eyes sharply focused. "Tall; pale; wavy, reddish hair?"  
  
Lord Cawdor shakes his head. "No, sir."  
  
"Or how about a French bloke? Blond, about my height, with a long, pointy nose, and—"  
  
Scotland snorts, amused by the irrationality of his brother's fears. "Come on, England. Neither of them is likely to be here."  
  
"You don't think they'd leap at the chance to—" England hastily swallows his next word, doubtless unwilling to name this an invasion now they know how undisciplined an attempt at one it had been. His gaze flits around the taproom for a moment, presumably looking for inspiration, before he continues with, "Cause trouble for me."  
  
"A piddling wee skirmish like this? It wouldn't be worth either of their times to get involved."  
  
"I can't imagine there's an annoyance petty enough that they wouldn't prefer to inflict it upon me personally if they could," England says, folding his arms defensively across his chest.  
  
"We've received no reports of the woman, sir, but the man..." Lord Cawdor's colour rises. "A man fitting that description was captured along with twelve other soldiers by a local woman, one Mrs Jemima Nicholas. I was inclined to dismiss his claims that... well, that he was France himself, because he was as sotted as the rest of them, but I thought it wise to keep him in our custody here, just in case he was speaking the truth. He's tied up in the cellar."  
  
England shoots Scotland a smugly triumphant look. "When it comes to me, there's no such thing as too petty for the frog," he says. "You'd do well to remember that."  


  
_____

  
  
  
Stout rope has been wrapped around France's ankles and wrists, tying them together afore him, and around his chest, lashing him to the beer barrel at his back. Judging by the rolling loll of his head, this last binding was not made as a precaution to prevent his escape, but to offer him support enough that he can sit upright.  
  
He reeks, and not only of alcohol, but of stale sweat and old blood and something far harsher; something sharp and astringent that brings to Scotland's mind the more noxious of an apothecary's wares and the confinement of a sickroom.  
  
The association chills him, and he steps forward into the soft puddle of light cast out by Lord Cawdor's lantern so that he can see France more clearly.  
  
The line of his jaw seems more severely pronounced than in the past, his cheeks sunken, but Scotland cannot be certain if the change is revelatory of a new illness that has eaten away at his flesh and vitality, or of an older truth laid bare by the shearing of his hair. It is shorter than Scotland has ever seen it before, cut down to nothing but bristles at the base of his skull though it still falls in soft curls over his brow.  
  
A bruise darkens the skin there, shading to a light grey-green at his temple. "What happened here?" he asks Lord Cawdor, gesturing towards it.  
  
"I believe Mrs Nicholas hit him with her pitchfork, sir, when he refused to come quietly," Lord Cawdor says.  
  
"She sounds like a marvellous woman," England says, smiling broadly.  
  
Lord Cawdor clears his throat with a small cough. "What do you want to do with the prisoner now, sir?"  
  
"What indeed?" France asks in French before England has chance to answer. His voice is rough and reedy, stripped of all its normal lilting musicality. "Your brother didn't have the first clue what to do with me when I was at his mercy, but I'm sure you'll have far better ideas."  
  
He leers at England, but the drunken laxity of his face and puffy swelling around his right eye renders the expression more comical than lascivious, and England merely rolls his eyes at it instead of mounting his usual scandalised protests against such suggestions.  
  
He delivers a desultory kick to France's shin, tells him, "Don't be vulgar," in a remarkably mild tone, and then says to Lord Cawdor, "There's not much we _can_ do, unfortunately. There are strict rules of conduct we have to adhere to, even in wartime. Our kind cannot be kept hostage, so we have no choice but to return him to his own people."

  
  
\-----

  
  
Before England departs with Lord Cawdor to strategise ahead of the meeting with Colonel Tate, he orders Wales to go and arrange safe passage for France back to the continent, thus leaving Scotland alone to guard their prisoner.  
  
Scotland isn't sure whether it is meant as a kindness or a punishment, but he expects it will be neither given France's propensity in more recent years towards ignoring his existence entirely even when they're standing within spitting distance of one another.  
  
As soon as England closes the cellar door behind him, however, France looks Scotland slowly up and down, and then says, "I did not have chance to mention it when last we met, but your brother's colours suit you very ill."  
  
"Our colours." Whether out of absentmindness or malice, England makes such slips of the tongue so frequently that the correction is an automatic one. "Or, rather, they're now my colours, too."  
  
France twitches his shoulders upwards slightly in as close an approximation to a shrug as he can manage against his restraints. "That red clashes dreadfully with your hair, either way." A smile blooms on his lips and then dies in almost the same instant. "Is it what you wanted, _Écosse_? Did you welcome union with _Angleterre_ in the end?"  
  
"What I wanted never came into it." His people's wishes counted for little more, but that particular wound festers still, and as he has no wish to lance it in front of France, he has nothing more to say on the matter.  "I don't suppose anyone asked you if you wanted to take part in this invasion, either, and yet here you are."  
  
"Ah, but they didn't have to ask! I volunteered, and gladly so. How could I pass up the chance to march again across _Angleterre_ 's lands as I once did with Williame? That I came this time as a liberator instead of a conqueror made the prospect all the sweeter. And, besides, I had been longing for an excuse to get away from—"  
  
France cuts himself off abruptly with a sharp snap of his teeth, his gaze shuttering.  
  
"Away from what?" Scotland prompts him gently. "How are things for you at home, France?"  
  
It had been hard to keep track of him from across the Channel and through all the chaos and confusion that had engulfed his lands these past few years. Not even England had received personal word from the nation himself, and all they had heard were a few spotty, second-hand accounts of his movements and the odd, frankly outlandish, rumour.  
  
"It is perhaps a little premature to say that I'm thriving, but I am surviving," France says with a wan smile.  
  
"Aye, so you are. And we had been given cause to wonder about that, you know, because we'd heard tell you'd been sent to the guillotine."  
  
It had been the most ridiculous of the rumours, and Scotland grins, expecting France to laugh at it.  
  
But France pales and his nostrils flare wide, just once, before he lets his head drop, baring his neck in a clear invitation.  
  
"Oh, Jesus," Scotland groans. He swings Lord Cawdor's lantern closer, and even after all the shadows huddled beneath France's gaping collar are chased away, he can't quite believe it. Doesn't believe it, until he touches the very tip of one finger to the back of France's neck and feels the hard ridging of scar tissue there. "They didn't..." His stomach feels to drop, turn over, and then drop again. "How could they do that to _you_? To their own nation?"  
  
"But they did not think of me as _theirs_ then," France says. "To them, I was just one more part of the _Ancien Régime_. I had to die, so I could be born anew in the Republic."  
  
"France..." Scotland begins, but there his inspiration runs dry as he has never known how to offer France comfort, with his words or anything else.  
  
For once, he is not long given cause rue his deficiencies on that score, as it seems that France does not want comforting, in any case. When he lifts his head again, his eyes are hard and defiant, and though the fierce directness of his stare does seem to demand something, Scotland is fairly certain it is not compassion, though he can intuit no more than that.  
  
And ignorant of France's true desires, he can only stay silent and wait for some further sign of his intent. It does not come, and after a beat or two longer, France looks away from him, shaking his head.  
  
"I don't care to dwell on it, anyway. It's done now, and perhaps it was done for the best." France shifts his weight a little, arcs his back and bends his knees, and then frowns in displeasure. "I wonder if you might see fit to free my hands. They're starting to go numb."  
  
"All my weapons have been taken from me," he adds, even as Scotland is unsheathing the knife hung from his belt, "so I have nothing with which I could cut through the rest of these ropes."  
  
"Even if you did, you'd have to lay me out afterwards, not to mention England and Lord Cawdor upstairs, and I can't recall that you were ever much of a bare-knuckle fighter."  
  
Scotland chuckles when France scowls, and then crouches down in front of him, slicing through the rope that binds his wrists with a quick flick of his blade.  
  
France curls his fingers down, splays them out straight again, and then makes a sudden, lunging grab for Scotland. Not for his knife or his throat, as Scotland had been anticipating and thusly prepared himself to counter, but instead for his face, which he brackets between his palms.  
  
His touch is gentle and so quickly withdrawn that Scotland is almost inclined to believe he imagined it, save that his cheeks are still warmed with by a ghostly trace of France's heat afterwards.  
  
"Thank you." France's smile is gentle, too. "I might be able to sleep now."  
  
"Still tied to a barrel?" Scotland asks disbelievingly, finding it hard to credit. The France he had once known would complain that he could find no rest even on feather beds if their mattresses happened to be an inch thinner than was his preference for them.  
  
"I'm so tired, I think I could sleep anywhere," France says, his eyelids sliding shut. "But, then again, I always think that, and I never..."  
  
His words slur, falter, and then eventually fade into silence. Scotland waits for a moment, and then tentatively holds the lantern close to his face once more. France doesn't flinch as its light spills over him, suggesting that – bound tight, seated on cold, damp stone, and deep in enemy territory – he has already fallen asleep.  
  
Scotland finds that even harder to credit, and impossible to understand.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- 1797: During the War of the First Coalition, Revolutionary France staged a military invasion of Great Britain. The attack was meant to be three-pronged, with two forces landing in Britain as a diversionary tactic, whilst the third, and largest, force landed in Ireland. Poor weather and outbreaks of mutiny halted the progress of the forces headed to Newcastle and Ireland, and they turned back to France. The last landed at 2 am on the 22nd of February in Fishguard, Pembrokeshire.
> 
> That force consisted of 600 regular soldiers, and 800 irregulars, made up of Republicans, prisoners, deserters, and convicts. Discipline broke down after the convicts discovered that the locals of Fishguard had a supply of wine, scavenged from a Portuguese ship that had been wrecked on the nearby coast, and they too mutinied and many simply disappeared. 
> 
> On the evening of the 23rd February, two French officers arrived at the Royal Oak, where Lord Cawdor, commander of the British forces, had made his headquarters, to negotiate surrender.
> 
> Lord Cawdor received surrender from Colonel Tate on Goodwick Sands on the 24th of February.
> 
> \- Jemima Nicholas is a considered a hero of the Battle of Fishguard. Armed only with a pitchfork, she captured 12 French soldiers from the fields around Fishguard.


	5. Chapter 5

**1806; Saint Helier, Bailiwick of Jersey**  
  
  
  
"Why doesn't he invade?" England asks. "If I were in his place, I would have done so long since."  
  
The question is seemingly directed towards the French coast itself, barely visible on the far horizon through the early morning mist, but as it is unlikely to have an answer to give, Scotland feels free to offer his own in its stead.  
  
"It didn't end well for his people last time they tried, did it?" he says. "It took no more than a few hours for our men and Jersey's to trounce them. Maybe he doesn't want to repeat that same mistake?"  
  
"Maybe," England says, but though it sounds like a concession, his actions soon belie it.  
  
He still insists on touring Jersey's coastal defences, and even after the sun has climbed high and scorchingly bright in the sky, clambers up and over gun batteries, forts and redoubts with a tireless, determined energy that allows for no pause to seek shade or take refreshment.  
  
Come dinnertime, England is as red as a cooked lobster, and he retreats to his room shortly after eating, pleading an aching head.  
  
Left to entertain themselves alone, Scotland and Jersey eschew both reading and the pianoforte – as had been their respective employments every other evening of this short visit – in favour of conversation and Madeira .  
  
They speak only of serious matters at first, of the war and Napoleon and the imagined naval invasion England so fears, but as the hour grows late and sweetened gin takes the place of Madeira, they stray onto more frivolous topics: books they have both enjoyed, artists they both admire, and quizzing each other's musical tastes.  
  
And Jersey's voice has a music of its own; far finer, to Scotland's ear, than that produced by any instrument. Though her accent is light, it lends French cadences even to her English, a rhythmic rise and fall of pitch and richness of tone that Scotland finds quite enchanting.  
  
He has not yet been made insensible enough by drink to be unaware that its similarity to _another's_ voice adds substantially to its charms, or that the proud angle of nose and jaw she shares with her cousin lends even more beauty to her face.  
  
She turns her head slightly to one side before laughing, just as he would. Her hair gleams gold in the firelight just like his.  
  
Each fresh point of resemblance holds a little more of Scotland's attention; makes him edge a little further across the sofa towards her.  
  
When eventually their arms brush together, and their gazes hold transfixed, it should perhaps come as no great surprise when Jersey kisses him, but Scotland is caught so thoroughly off guard that, flustered, and unpractised at the art besides, he cannot hope to acquit himself with anything close to dignity.  
  
She is kind enough to humour his fumbling attempt at reciprocation for a moment, but no more, and she then leans away from him with a quiet, fluttering sigh.  
  
"Your mind is elsewhere," she says, stroking her thumbs across the backs of his hands, which lay curled into loose fists, resting uneasily against his thighs.  
  
Centuries in the past, or fourteen miles away: either answer would be true, and both are too shameful to acknowledge aloud.  
  
"Aye," is as much as Scotland is willing to admit. "I'm... I'm sorry."  
  
"Don't be. I fear mine is, too." Jersey lifts one hand to gently trace the furrowed lines of his brow. She laughs lightly. "I think you'd probably prefer to be kept in ignorance of its destination, though."  
  
Her second kiss is that of a friend, pressed soft and fleeting against his cheek, and with it she bids him good night.

 

 

* * *

  
  
  
  
**8th April, 1904; Palace of Westminster, London, England**  
  
  
  
Earlier in the day, some dignitary or other had suggested to Scotland that he must feel as though he and France were renewing the Auld Alliance. Given his sardonic tone, it was meant as a joke, and Scotland had dutifully laughed at it. Privately, though, he considered the comparison depressingly apt in some ways.  
  
In his youthful naivety, he had expected the forging of their alliance then to bring about a seismic upheaval in their relationship, a sea change in France's feelings towards him, but all there had been to signify it afterwards was their names side by side on a piece of parchment.  
  
It is type-written paper he sets pen to now, and both of their signatures are different, but the outcome is the same.  
  
On a personal level, nothing between them has changed.  
  
France does not kiss his cheeks, as he had England, Wales, and Ireland's as they in turn moved to the head of the conference table to add their names to the Declaration, but instead offers only a handshake. The smile he gives Scotland along with it is broad, but there's a brittle quality to it, a slight strained look about his eyes, which suggests that it has been forced against his inclinations, and takes no small effort to maintain.  
  
Afterwards, they troop out into New Palace Yard in order that this momentous occasion might be memorialised in a photograph.  
  
Although it's likely to be filed away with the declaration and never put on public display, the photographer seems unwilling for it to be nothing more than a simple record. He regards them all with an artist's eye, orders the Prime Minister to stand _here_ , France's ambassador _there_ , and then arranges the assembled nations, too, with the stated aims of 'providing contrast' and 'bringing balance' to the shot.  
  
He insists that France _must_ be seated between England and Scotland; an arrangement which Scotland expects England to protest against, at the very least.  
  
But England mounts no objections. He does not pout, or frown, or grumble, and instead  engages France in light conversation. In content, it is too rigidly confined to the subject of the weather to be anything other than dull, but it _is_ shockingly, unfailingly, civil.  
  
Though their countries have enjoyed a warmer relationship since Waterloo, Scotland had never had any inkling that his brother's feelings towards France might have thawed as a consequence.  
  
Yet he simpers and talks doggedly of the warm, spring air, and then later, when they and their respective delegations have retired to England's house to partake of brandy, cigars, and a quiet celebration of the day, he draws France aside, to a quiet corner of the living room, where they can continue this banal exchange in relative privacy.  
  
Scotland can only assume that the PM and their king had commanded England not only to be courteous, but also to make himself as agreeable to France as his limited talents at such an undertaking would allow.  
  
France certainly seems quick to tire of his attempts, and soon abandons him for the pleasure of Ireland's company, leaving England rubicund and scowling in his wake.  
  
With Ireland, he is full of exaggerated gallantry and fanciful compliments, wryly given and playfully accepted and returned, and he bends down low to press an ardent kiss to her palm. She does not blush to receive it, but simply laughs, and then sends him on his way again with an amiable cuff to the back of his head.  
  
To Wales, he is polite, even in the face of Wales' monosyllabically grunted replies to his pleasantries.  
  
It must be nothing more than the demands of politeness, too, that guide him towards Scotland thereafter, as his slow, halting steps bespeak nothing but reluctance; his grimace, resentful distaste.  
  
Though he had harboured no illusions that their countries' _Entente_ might draw them closer once more, Scotland had not anticipated that their next meeting would be anything other than cordial. They had traded no insults or harsh words the last time they talked, in the cellar beneath the Royal Oak, and parted, Scotland had presumed, on relatively affable terms.  
  
To be sure, he's pressed the point of a bayonet against France's throat and levelled a rifle at his head more times than he cares to count since then, but that had been in the service of his king and queen, and not as a result of any personal animosity. That has always been the truth of the battlefield for their kind, which France surely understands just as well as he does.  
  
Despite that understanding, however, he still has the look of a man steeling himself to perform some necessary duty that is nonetheless abhorrent to him.  
  
Scotland cannot explain it, but he thinks he may be able to mitigate it. This is meant to be a celebration, after all, with France as their guest of honour.  
  
And as host, it is Scotland's own duty to offer him any kindness that it is within his power to give.  
  
To that end, he pretends he has not noticed France, then quickly turns and moves away, sparing him from even having to complete his approach.  
  
France does not call after him, and does not attempt to follow.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- During the eighteenth century, the British fortified the Channel Islands, including Jersey, with coastal defenses due to their strategic importance in naval warfare. In 1779, during the Anglo-French War, a French force attempted a landing on Jersey. It was repelled by the Jersey militia and 78th Regiment Highlanders who were stationed there. In 1781, French royalist forces attempted to invade Jersey, in an effort to remove the threat the island posed to American and French shipping during the American War of Independence, but were defeated by Jersey militia and 78th and 95th regiments.
> 
> Napoleon never attempted to invade the Channel Islands, perhaps, in part, due to the example set by these past failures.
> 
> \- 1904: The 'Declaration between the United Kingdom and France Respecting Egypt and Morocco' was signed between those two countries in London on the 8th of April, along with two other declarations. It was part of the series of agreements now collectively known as the Entente Cordiale, designed to settle areas of dispute over colonial influence and trading, and also mark the formalisation of the friendship that had been growing between the UK and France.


	6. Chapter 6

**November, 1915; Western Front, France**

  
  
Back home in London, dawn belonged to Scotland alone. The morning's hush, broken only by the sound of his own breathing, and the melodic clink and chime of cutlery and crockery. Charred toast, oversweet tea, and listening with half an ear for the sound of England's foot on the stairs, heralding the inevitable shattering of his peace.  
  
At the front, there is the stand-to and the rum ration, and in between he seeks out his brother's company instead of fleeing from it.  
  
They retreat today and every day to the same, quiet spot, where they lean against the back wall of the trench, their shoulders pressed tight together. England's whole body shakes with the rat-a-tat rhythm of gunfire.  
  
Scotland lights two cigarettes from the same match, hands one to his brother, and England inhales it greedily, as though smoke alone could hope to fill the aching emptiness in his belly that Scotland knows they both share.  
  
He finishes his first cigarette before Scotland is even halfway through his own, then lights a second with its still smouldering butt. This, he smokes at a more leisurely pace, savouring the taste and the comforting tempo of habit: long breath in, slow breath out.  
  
He tips his head to rest against the damp, loamy earth behind him, his eyelids flickering closed. They look paper-thin now, finely creased, and bruised almost black with exhaustion.  
  
Scotland closes his own eyes, and listens to the distant chatter of their soldiers; the sharp, metallic clatter of tin mugs and plates. The slow, measured, and laborious tread of someone picking their way through the deep mud nearby.  
  
The squelching footsteps grow louder, closer, finally drawing to a halt what sounds to be only a few feet away.  
  
There follows a soft, muted tap – a salute – and then, "Captain Kirkland."  
  
The voice's long vowels are all of a part of England's south, but its consonants aren't quite crisp enough still to disguise the fading remnants of the burr which betrays the speaker was once one of Scotland's own, and thus he recognises them instantly.  
  
Private Alasdair McMillan; twenty-two; Oxford graduate. Dark hair, dark eyes, tall and broad-shouldered, and so recently arrived at the front that the bright eagerness of his youth hasn't yet had chance to become tarnished by it.  
  
Scotland knows without looking that his gaze will be keen, his posture parade-ground perfect, so he keeps his eyes closed.  
  
France has taken a fancy to the lad of late; sequestered together in dark corners, a hand on his arm, cocked head, lowered lashes, and quiet laughter. Scotland never looks for more than a second or two if he can help it.  
  
"What do you want, Private?" he asks, when it becomes clear that England has no reply of his own to give.  
  
"I need to speak to Capitaine Bonnefoy," McMillan says, "but he's nowhere to be found. I thought he might be in the officer's dugout."  
  
"Aye, he might well be," Scotland says. "But no doubt he'll turn up in time for—"  
  
"It's urgent business, sir. Can't wait till breakfast."  
  
The mud plashes and gurgles again as McMillan shifts his weight impatiently from foot to foot. England inhales long, exhales slow, and does not stir.  
  
"Right." Scotland sighs. "I'll go and see if I can find him, then."  


  
_____

  
  
  
Scotland has never been invited to enter the small room that is France's own in the dugout, never so much as taken a peek behind its makeshift blanket door, and only he does so with abashed caution now, fearful of disturbing him. Of being rebuffed.  
  
But the room is empty, and empty of more than the nation himself.  
  
The quarters Scotland shares with England and Wales are cluttered: spare boots and uniforms shoved higgedly-piggedly wherever they can find space for them; shelves overflowing with their tea things, books, and mementos bought from home; maps and magazine photos tacked at haphazard angles to the walls.  
  
France has only his pack, stowed beneath his neatly-made cot.  
  
Scotland moves then to the bunkroom, with no anticipation of success in mind, but nonetheless finds France seated there, perched at the edge of the bed furthest from the door.  
  
He is hunchbacked, barechested, his horizon-blue greatcoat lying crumpled on the floor beside him and his undershirt wrung tight between his hands, twisted up like a rope, and held high and flat against the hollow of his throat.  
  
Scotland takes one wary step towards him, and although his feet land as light as snowfall against the duckboards, France flinches as violently as if an artillery shell had just exploded beneath him.  
  
His legs spasm, arms shooting up and wide, and the undershirt is sent flying. He lunges forward, trying to catch it before it can drop to the floor, and the movement makes him groan; a raw, animal sound of pain.  
  
Scotland is at his side before he's even aware that he's moving. "France? What is it? Are you all right?"  
  
"Yes," France says immediately, but after staring at Scotland for a long moment, his eyes narrowed calculatingly, he amends that to, "No."  
  
Scotland's pulse jumps. "What is it? What's wrong?"  
  
The questions are, perhaps, unnecessary, as the condition of France's body seems to be an answer in and of itself.  
  
It has been so many years since Scotland last saw him in such a state of undress that he cannot easily recall the date, but he does know that they were both still youths at the time. France had been whipcord slim, half-formed, but even then more substantial than he is now.  
  
Now, his chest is striated with stringy muscle, his stomach a hollowed bowl; skin stretched pale and taut across the sharp contours of his ribs.  
  
"I..." France blinks up at him sluggishly. "I'm wounded."  
  
"How? Were you shot?"  
  
A brisk shake of his head. "No, I..."  
  
Scotland waits patiently, but it appears France has no more words to give him. Instead, he squares his shoulders, twists his hips, and presents his back to speak in mute explanation.  
  
The ladder of his ribs climbs there, too, strutted by the beaded string of his vertebrae, but Scotland pays it no heed. All of his attention, all of his thoughts, are caught and captured by the lacerations that have bitten deep into France's spare flesh.  
  
Like the lash marks of a cruelly barbed whip, the cuts are long, straight, and narrow, running from his scapula to the waistband of his loose trousers.  
  
"What the fuck happened to you?" he asks, his voice rasping low and pained.  
  
"The trenches, I think," France says. "That would be my best guess, anyway."  
  
Scotland has starved along with his people, felt his king's death rattle in his own throat, witnessed wounds blossoming across his body that had felled soldiers fighting in his name, but never once seen the like of France's injuries before. Then again, there's never been a war like this one before, either.  
  
"Do they hurt?" he asks, pointlessly, stupidly, because standing there gawping in silence makes him feel even more useless.  
  
France glances back at him over his shoulder, his eyes darkened to a drab, storm-cloud grey. "Only a little," he says, not contemptuous but dismissive. "They do itch intolerably, though. I was hoping you might be able to help with that." He gestures towards a small chest beside the bed upon which a tin bowl is set, steaming gently. "I tried cleaning them myself, but, well, it proved difficult."  
  
Scotland looks from bowl, to the scrap of towel alongside it, and then back to France once more. His throat runs dry.  
  
"Are you sure, France?" he asks, certain that only the very worst kind of discomfort and desperation could possibly have prompted France to turn to him for this. "I can go get—"  
  
"No," France snaps out harshly. "There is... There's no-one else I could ask to do this. To see me... It has to be you, _Ecosse_."  
  
Wales would be gentler, England more thorough, but Scotland bites his tongue and does not suggest them. He has had little opportunity in recent years to exercise his centuries-old, privately-made promise, and no matter how hard his hands tremble, how fast his head spins, he cannot bring himself to refuse the chance of being of some use to France now.  
  
Still, he tries not to think too deeply, or even at all, as he dips the towel into the lukewarm water and then places it against France's ruined back. He tries not to notice the fine tremors racing across France's skin, the hiss of breath through his clenched teeth, or the way the water turns from cloudy white to pale red, shot through with swirls of brown and dirty grey. How it stinks just like the trench above them: sludge and decay and cordite commingled.  
  
He wets the towel, wipes, rinses, and then wets it again, methodically working his way up France's body from the small of his back to the top of his spine. There he pauses, task complete, but unable yet to move away. France's head had bowed ever lower as Scotland had worked until gravity parted his lank hair, baring the base of his neck.  
  
The scar from the guillotine is barely visible there now, faded away to nothing more than a light pink line. Unthinking, Scotland rests the tip of his finger against it, just as he had done over a hundred years ago in the Royal Oak.  
  
It is more than he has ever dared uninvited before, but, for a wonder, France allows it, if only for a moment before he shivers and shuffles and then shrugs off the touch.  
  
Scotland steps back, clasping his hands together in an effort to prevent them from betraying him again.  
  
"Perhaps you should move to the reserve," he says. "It can't be easy, being here like... like _that_."  
  
"What good would the reserve do me? This isn't something I can rest from. This isn't something I can escape. The only thing that could help is..." France laughs dully. "Well, winning this war, I imagine. And I'm better placed for that here than anywhere else."  
  
He picks up his undershirt again, carefully straightens it out, and then, his gaze still averted downwards, says, "Thank you, Scotland."  
  
It's the first time he has ever used the name, and though it should sound warm and familiar – a gesture of friendship – it does not. His voice is hollow and jarringly stark, and Scotland is not surprised when his next words shape a brusque dismissal.

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

**1926; London, England**

   
  
Children are so very rare amongst their kind that each new arrival is greeted with both excitement and wonder.  
  
A steady procession of nations has arrived at their house over the past year - most of whom Scotland has not seen in decades otherwise - wanting their chance to gawp at Northern Ireland, but England has turned each and every one of them away at the door.  
  
If he had bothered to stir himself to answer this knock, Scotland assumes his answer would have been the same.  
  
"We're not receiving visitors," he thus tells France. "England's orders."  
  
"And you've always been so ready and willing to obey him," France says with a smile.  
  
It's a tremulous thing, that smile: lop-sided and wavering. It doesn't reach his eyes, which are as dull and shadowed as they ever were during the Great War. He's just as thin as he was then, too; his face cadaverously hollow and pale excepting two spots of livid colour sitting high on his cheekbones. His hands are trembling, ever so slightly. Despite the relative mildness of the day, he must be freezing, with no spare flesh to help keep him warm.  
  
"I do try not to make a habit of it," Scotland says, throwing the door open wide. "Come in; have a cup of tea, at least. Best keep as quiet as you can, though. There'll be hell to pay if England hears you."  
  
"I don't think there would," France says, stepping confidently into the hallway, "seeing as though he asked me to be here."  
  
"He did?" Scotland asks, incredulous. England has been guarding Northern Ireland against the world so zealously that not even Portugal has been allowed past their threshold of late.  
  
Nevertheless, France nods. "I was expecting him to greet me." He glances at his wristwatch. "Though I suppose I am a little early. Is he caught up elsewhere?"  
  
"He's..." Scotland hasn't the first clue where England is. He's been conspicuous by his absence all morning. "I'm sure he won't be long, if he knows you're due."  
  
Scotland still can't quite credit it, but France nods acquiescently again. "I'll wait, then. And take you up on that offer of tea, if I may."  
  
Scotland wishes he'd never made it, for all that it seemed like the right thing to do at the time, confronted suddenly by a forlorn and shivering France on his doorstep. He doesn't much relish the prospect of sitting down with him alone.  
  
After that one moment of weakness he'd been allowed to witness in the dugout - when France begged him to wash his wounds - France had drawn further away from Scotland than ever before. On the rare occasions France had had no choice but to address him directly, he was _Écosse_ once more. At all other times, France had gone out of his way to avoid meeting his eyes, never mind including him in conversation, or, god forbid, so much as acknowledging his presence, even when they were standing shoulder to shoulder, enemies in their sights and guns raised.  
  
It seems strange, then, that he would volunteer to pass time with Scotland now, that he would smile and joke with him instead of simply demanding to see England, which would perhaps be his right as England's _invited guest_.    
  
This is Scotland's home, too, though, for all England treats him like a parasitical and unwelcome lodger in it, and it could be that France feels he has to force himself to play civil, in deference to that fact.  
  
Or maybe he's simply so cold that he's willing to tolerate any manner of unpleasantness in pursuit of a warming drink.  
  
"I'll put the kettle on," Scotland says, if only because he can think of no good reason to refuse to do so. In England's absence, France has become _his_ guest for the time being, and he prides himself on his ability to be a decent host, whatever the circumstances. "Why don't you go through and wait in the living room?"  
  
It's the perfect excuse for France to avoid his company for a little while longer, but he doesn't take it. Instead, he follows Scotland into the kitchen; keeping pace with him even though the stiff, halting measure of his steps suggests that he has not regained the strength in his muscles or suppleness in his joints that they had possessed before the war.  
  
Close to, Scotland can smell that the stink of the trenches lingers on him. The dirt, and the smoke, and, most strongly, the decay. It makes him wonder if the wounds that France had so reluctantly revealed to him have turned rotten. He doubts they've been tended to as carefully as they should have been.  
  
He doesn't ask after them, though. He doubts France would answer him, either way.  
  
When they reach the kitchen, France seats himself at the table and stares blankly at nothing whilst Scotland bustles about, preparing their tea.  
  
France has always turned his nose up at the stuff before, even when it was the only small comfort to be found in the trenches, so Scotland has no idea how he likes to take it. He leaves France's cup plain, but sets out the milk jug and sugar bowl so he can doctor it to suit his preferences.  
  
France looks at both, and then beseechingly up at Scotland. "Do you have any lemon?" he asks.  
  
Even if they do, Scotland has no idea where it might be kept. The kitchen is England's domain, for the most part. "I'm afraid not," he says.  
  
France sighs, then stirs four spoonfuls of sugar into his tea. It's clearly no substitute for lemon, because he grimaces after taking an experimental sip of it. "I have no idea how you can drink this by the gallon," he says, placing the cup back down on the table. He keeps his hands wrapped around it, though, presumably grateful for its meagre warmth even if he can't stomach the taste. "It's so bitter."  
  
Scotland can't imagine how lemon would be able to remedy _that_. "And that's why you add milk," he says, pushing the jug a little closer to France. "You should try it."  
  
France wrinkles his nose. "I have," he says. "It didn't help."  
  
Still, he drinks a few more mouthfuls, and his tentative smile slowly returns. "You look well, _Écosse_ ," he observes over the rim of his cup.  
  
Scotland had resigned himself to never receiving compliments France many centuries ago, and even this paltry example of one completely flummoxes him. It takes him a shamefully long time to realise that a suitable answer to it would be: "Thank you." Returning the favour is probably the polite thing to do, but so blatantly untruthful that he fears that France would think he was mocking him if he did. Instead, he asks, "And how are you?"  
  
"I'm well. I'm..." France takes a deep breath in, then chuckles weakly. "Lying, obviously." He pats his narrow chest with one bony hand, his eyes darting away from Scotland and then back again, gaze finally settling somewhere in the vicinity of his left ear. "As you can no doubt see, I'm not exactly in peak condition.  
  
"I can't eat enough to put any weight back on; I just don't have the appetite for it. And though I'm always exhausted, I can't sleep."  
  
No matter how obvious that might be, Scotland couldn't have anticipated that France would deliberately draw attention to his impoverished appearance, or make such a bald admission of his own fragility. Especially not to him.  
  
They've never shared confidences, even in better years, and nowadays they might as well be strangers.  
  
It could be that that very estrangement has encouraged France to speak plain, though. He might feel as though he's simply pouring out his troubles to some distant acquaintance he's chanced to meet, and one he'll never have to engage with again if he does not wish to. A handy listening ear.  
  
It's so far from how Scotland wishes France saw him as to be fucking risible, but probably the best he can hope for at this point in what passes for their relationship, in any case. As such, he's happy enough to oblige. "Nightmares?" he asks sympathetically.  
  
His own nights have always been plagued by them, but they've been more vivid than ever before since he returned from the front.  
  
"Every time I close my eyes," France admits. "Sometimes, gas has filled our trench again, and the earth's caving in on our heads. Others, I'm—"  
  
"Scotland!" England screeches as he storms through the open kitchen door. "Scotland, have you heard any..." He stutters into silence when he notices France, and then stares at him in gape-mouthed fatuousness for a moment before turning to glare at Scotland. "Why didn't you come and tell me France had arrived?"  
  
"Because I didn't know where the fuck you were," Scotland says; perfectly reasonably, he would have thought, but England scowls at him in response all the same.  
  
"I was busy," he snaps, and though he neglects to explain himself further, it's clear as day - to Scotland, at least - precisely what 'busy' had entailed.  
  
His face has the raw and florid appearance of the recently scrubbed, and his hair, which is as unruly as Scotland's own, has been weighted down into compliant submission by a great deal more pomade than he would normally use. He's wearing his best suit, the trousers creased to knife-edge perfection, and his shoes are gleaming.  
  
He's been _primping himself_ ; an activity he usually undertakes only when Portugal or India come calling.  
  
It's a disquieting sight, but not half so off-putting as France's reaction to it. He flows to his feet with all of his old, easy fluidity, a wide grin beaming from his face, and says, "England."  
  
Scotland's heart twinges painfully hard. He'd known his brother and France had set aside some measure of their old animosity during the war, grown a little closer, but he never would have guessed they were close enough for _that_.  
  
Thankfully, England seems no more kindly disposed towards letting France kiss him in greeting than he ever has been, however; squirming away before France can land even the briefest of pecks on one of his cheeks. They might have warmed up to one another, but it must only be by the smallest fraction of a degree.  
  
"Well," England says, shuffling around until France's line of attack is safely blocked by the width of the table, "I wasn't expecting you to arrive so soon. You're never usually on time for anything."  
  
"I can be," France says, "given the right sort of inducement."  
  
England squints at him suspiciously, but France's expression is completely guileless as far as Scotland is able to tell.  
  
"And you're desperate to meet North just like every other bloody nation on earth, apparently," England says at length, clearly persuaded of the same. "Come on, then."  
  
He beckons for France to follow him, but France hesitates momentarily, glancing back over his shoulder to say, "Thank you for the tea, _Écosse_."  
  
"No problem," Scotland says, "I'm..."  
  
England bustles France away whilst he's still speaking, leaving Scotland with to voice the remainder of the sentiment to the empty room.  
  
He feels faintly ridiculous, but carries on regardless, just to experience the small sense of satisfaction of having said it aloud: "Glad we had the chance to talk."

 

 


End file.
